


Not Always 1895

by esplanade



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Fluff, M/M, Prompt Fill, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-10 07:27:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1156791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esplanade/pseuds/esplanade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I have long since established that I am not where I once was.  So would you be so kind as to enlighten me?”<br/>	“What do you mean?”<br/>	“This is still London, of course.  It isn't the where I'm having a problem with, it's the when.  What year is it?”  <br/>	“It's 2014.”<br/>	The man whirled around and looked at John with a manic glint in his eye.  “Say that again.”<br/>	“2014?”<br/>	The man's smile widened.  “Oh, and here I was worried that it would be a dull evening.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Always 1895

**Author's Note:**

> For the wonderful [navydream](http://navydream.tumblr.com/) who wanted a [Kate and Leopold AU](http://navydream.tumblr.com/post/73919045049/okay-okay-not-that-i-want-you-to-write-me-fics) (basically, Sherlock accidentally getting sent from the 1800s to the present. So, past!Sherlock and present!John).

_Friday_

 

“John, is that you?” John stood in the front hall of 221B as Mrs. Hudson emerged from the back. “I could have sworn I heard you come in a few hours ago.”

John frowned, confused. “No, I just now got back from the clinic.”

She gave a little wave of her hand and said in a frazzled voice, “Must have been the neighbors then. How are you doing?”

It was an almost daily ritual, the little landlady inquiring after him. Most of the time, John didn't mind. But it had been a terrible day, and his leg was aching. He endured a few minutes of small talk before making his excuses and starting the slow walk up the stairs. It was the least he could do, since she'd given him such a good deal on the place. He would have hated to be forced to leave London.

John pushed open the door to his flat, breathing a sigh of relief at the promise of peace and some time alone.

Except he wasn't alone.

Sitting in the extra chair – a terrible leather thing that John never used – was a man. He was perhaps a few years younger than John with dark hair and bright eyes. He sat with his knees pulled up to his chest and was dressed in formal, outdated clothes. He looked on edge.

John glanced in the direction of his bedroom, wishing he'd carried his gun with him that morning. Not moving from his place in the doorway he said, “Who are you, and what are you doing in my flat? How did you get in here?”

“Picked the lock, obviously. Though I shouldn't have had to, since _I_ live here. Or I did, anyway. Although there wasn't always a _Speedy's_ below my flat, whatever that is.”

“ _Who are you_?” John reached into his pocket for his phone, considering calling the police.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

“All right, Sherlock Holmes, I hate to tell you this, but you don't live here anymore,” he muttered, turning his mobile on. The screen lit up.

“What is that device?”

John glanced up at the man. He had shifted in the chair, sitting on its edge, watching John closely. John almost ignored him, but the look of confusion on the man's face was so earnest that it made him pause.

“It's my mobile. You, know, telephone?”

The man's brow furrowed. “I have never seen or heard of a telephone that looks like _that_.”

“Have you been living under a rock?” The man ignored his clipped response, holding his hand out. John hesitated, but after a moment crossed the room and handed the phone to him. He tapped the screen for the man, causing it to light his face.

The man ignored him, turning the phone over in his hands, his fingers tracing the inscription.

“Who are you, then?”

“My name is John Watson.”

“Army doctor,” he said, glancing over John. “Recently returned from...Afghanistan.”

“How did you –”

“Obvious.” He ran his fingers over the touch screen, eventually finding his way to the camera, and jumping when the room around him appeared on the screen. He eyed it suspiciously before handing it back to John. “I have long since established that I am not where I once was. So would you be so kind as to enlighten me?”

“What do you mean?”

“This is still London, of course. It isn't the _where_ I'm having a problem with, it's the _when._ What year is it?” The man stood up, his coat billowing around him. He began pacing around the room, occasionally inspecting things that caught his interest. John watched him, his mouth hanging open.

“It's 2014.”

The man whirled around and looked at John with a manic glint in his eye. “Say that again.”

“2014?”

The man's smile widened. “Oh, and here I was worried that it would be a dull evening.”

***                    *                    ***

“You're from the past,” John said, his voiced laced with doubt. He sat in his chair across from Sherlock Holmes, who leaned toward him, steepling his fingers and grinning.

“Yes.”

“And how did you get here exactly?”

“I jumped off a building.”

“Excuse me?”

“A colleague of mine has long since had theories about a particular place outside St. Bartholomew's Hospital. Do you know it?”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

“I doubted the theories, of course. Physics has never been as interesting as chemistry, but it was a boring afternoon. Had to find something to do.”

“So you jumped off a hospital? What if you had died?”

“Dr. Watson, I always take precautions.”

“So you expect me to believe that you jumped off a building and landed in 2014.”

“Well of course, what else could have happened?”

“A delusional disorder?”

“Sorry?”

“Nothing.”

“You think I'm insane.”

“You have to admit, it isn't the sanest thing someone's ever said.”

“But you haven't forced me to leave.” He quirked a smile at John. “You believe me.”

“I didn't say that.”

“If you didn't believe me you likely would have called in law enforcement at least fifteen minutes ago. Or you would have guaranteed some sort of defense for yourself, but instead you sat down and talked to me. I don't believe you have any doubt in your mind.”

“Let's pretend for a minute that I did believe you, and I'm not saying I do, but if you jumped off a building to get here, how do you get back?”

“I'll have to return next week, if my colleague's calculations are correct. There are only certain times the opportunity is available. I return to my time the same way I found my way into yours.”

“You know, you shouldn't jump off buildings that much. It can't be safe.”

“Do I appear to be someone overly concerned with safety?”

“True. So what are you planning on doing then? You're stuck in 2014 for a week, yeah?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“Let me guess. You want to stay here.”

“Well, technically this _is_ my address.”

John sighed. “Fine. But you're not going out into London on your own.”

“Why not?” He sat up straighter, appalled at the thought.

“Because you'll get yourself killed, that's why. Or you'll attract attention or get arrested.”

“How can I adequately explore this century if I am confined here?”

“I solemnly swear I will help you _adequately explore this century_ if you promise to not go off on your own.”

Sherlock looked at him skeptically for a moment, but finally extended a hand. “Deal.”

 

* * *

 

_Saturday_

 

John woke up to the deafening blare of the television. He jumped out of bed, running into the living room. Sherlock stood holding the remote, his head cocked to the side as he watched the action movie that dominated the screen. John reached out and grabbed the remote out of his hands and shut the television off.

“Sherlock, what are you doing? You're going to wake up the entire block.”

“What is this thing, Dr. Watson? How do they put entire worlds inside this box?” Sherlock walked closer to the television, his finger reaching out for the “on” button. John reached out and grabbed his arm.

“No, no, do not turn that back on. Christ, it's just a television. We've had them for years.”

“Whose life was I viewing?”

“Indiana Jones'.”

“Who?”

“He's an archaeologist.”

“Is he past my time? He must be quite a man of note to have an entire production made to chronicle his life.”

John let out an exasperated sigh, letting go of his arm. “He's fictional. It's a movie.”

“So all the people on this screen are fictional?”

“No, I mean, there might be a documentary on somewhere. But that's a movie. There's more than one channel.”

“Explain.”

John stared blankly at him for a moment before turning the television on, quickly muting it. He began clicking through the different channels. Sherlock watched in amazement. Finally, John stopped on a documentary about bees. He turned the volume on low. “Look, see?” He drew Sherlock's attention to the buttons on the remote. “This lets you go between channels, and _this_ ,” he said, pointing to another button, “ _this_ is the volume control. This makes it quiet so that you don't shatter the bloody windows.”

“And this program, it is not fiction?”

“No, it's about bees.”

Sherlock smiled. “Truly industrious little creatures. Certainly meriting a program devoted to their habits.”

“Whatever you say,” John said, handing him the remote. “I will only let you have this if you promise not to turn the volume up.” Sherlock nodded, taking the remote, his eyes drifting back to the television.

John shook his head and walked back to his bedroom, picking his phone up off the bedside table and dialing a number.

“Hi, Mike. Sorry to bother you. I know it's early.”

“No problem at all John. What's wrong?”

“Nothing, at least, I don't think so. I was wondering if I could meet you at Bart's today. I want your opinion on something, as another doctor.”

Mike agreed, though he sounded apprehensive. John set a time and hung up.

When he walked back out into the living room, Sherlock looked away from the documentary, and, as if seeing him for the first time, asked, “Why don't you have a dressing gown?”

John looked down at himself, at the T-shirt and pajama pants. “Because I don't need one?”

“Everyone needs a dressing gown, Dr. Watson.”

John rolled his eyes. “I'll take that into consideration, thanks.” He stalked off to the kitchen for something to eat, saying over his shoulder, “We're going to Bart's in a while.”

“Are we?”

“Yes, we are.”

“I told you, the first opportunity for my return isn't until Friday.”

“That's not why we're going. We're meeting a friend of mine. So do me a favor, yeah? Wear that coat of yours, and keep it shut.”

“Why?”

“Because,” he said, moving to the doorway, “you look like you walked out of the 1800s.”

“But I did.”

“I know, but let's not shock the unsuspecting public anymore than we have to, okay?”

“ _Fine_ ,” he said as if it was a massive inconvenience.

It was going to be a very long day.

***                    *                    ***

John managed to get Sherlock to the labs at Bart's without incident, although the cabbie had looked at them strangely when John had to explain why women weren't all wearing dresses and how the buildings managed to be so tall and involve so much glass in their structure.

Sherlock's eyes lit up when he saw the labs. He strode among the different benches, hands clasped behind his back.

“I cannot tell you how many hours I've spent in these labs. The original ones, of course. It still feels the same somehow. Look at all they've done! Look at all the new equipment!” He stopped in front of a very expensive looking microscope.

“Sherlock, come here for a second.”

He walked over, but looked over his shoulder at the microscope. “Yes?”

“Touch. Nothing.”

Their heads turned as the doors opened and Mike walked through them. He smiled, but his smile faded as he saw Sherlock, coat open, revealing the outdated clothes.

John met him halfway. “I know this looks strange.”

“John, why's he dressed like that?”

“You wouldn't believe me if I told you. Look,” he lowered his voice so Sherlock couldn't hear, “just, tell me what you think.”

“I'm not a psychiatrist, John.”

“I didn't know who else to call. I want as few people to know about this as possible. Just talk to him, tell me if you think he's delusional.”

Mike looked past John at Sherlock, who was having visible troubling resisting the microscope. “What exactly makes you think he'd be delusional?”

“He said he was from the 1800s.”

“And you believed that?”

“Mike, just talk to him. I'll come back in a few minutes.”

***                    *                    ***

When John returned after killing time with some terrible hospital coffee, Mike met him just inside the lab doors.

“Well?”

“John, as far as I can tell, there's nothing wrong with him.”

“But that would mean...but that's impossible.”

“Apparently not. He gave a quite thorough explanation of the physics end of it. He's probably smarter than either of us,” he said with a shrug.

John glanced over at Sherlock, who had lit a Bunsen burner and was about to hold a test tube over it. “No, no, put it down.”

“I have an extensive knowledge of chemistry. I assure you I know what I'm doing,” Sherlock said.

John looked to Mike for backup, but Mike only said, “He does. He's been messing with things since I started talking to him.”

Sherlock proceeded to heat the test tube, and John gave up trying to argue.

Mike just smiled.

***                    *                    ***

“This is not the route to Baker Street.”

“Do you have London memorized or something?”

“Nearly, although I had to make some adjustments to account for the changes made since my time.”

“We're stopping by a shopping mall.”

“Why?”

“Because you needs clothes besides those.”

“Again I ask, why?”

“Because you look like you walked out of an episode of _Downton Abbey_ , that's why.”

“What is that?”

“Never mind. Just trust me. You can't walk around London like that. People will think you're crazy.”

“You thought I was crazy.”

“No, I didn't.”

“Yes you did. It's quite all right, I would have assumed the same thing.”

“You aren't crazy, though, are you?”

“No,” he said, smiling. “Although even in my own time, people have wondered if I was.”

“I can believe that.”

“You aren't limping as much today as you were yesterday.”

“Sorry?”

“Psychosomatic limp. Noticed it as soon as you walked into the flat. It isn't as bad today. Where were you actually wounded?”

“Shoulder,” John said icily.

The cab stooped, and Sherlock followed John inside. As they walked down the mall toward a clothing store, a display of hats at a kiosk caught Sherlock's eye.

He stopped to examine them, John walking a few more feet before he realized Sherlock wasn't following him anymore. Sherlock picked up one of the hats, a deerstalker, and looked it over disparagingly.

“Do people actually still wear these hideous things?”

“The tourists like them.”

“Why on earth would anyone be stupid enough to like these?”

“I don't know, Sherlock, now come on.” He waved for him to follow, and after one more horrified look at the deerstalker, Sherlock complied.

John should have known Sherlock would never choose anything as simple or commonplace as jeans. By the time they left, he was wearing a dark purple dress shirt and blazer, and had insisted on including a “dressing gown” with the other purchases. John was too tired to fight him on that one. He had also let him keep his mostly inconspicuous overcoat.

They were nearly out of the store when Sherlock caught sight of a blue scarf, and before he could open his mouth, John said, “Fine, fine,” and let him get it as well. John had to admit it suited him.

When they walked in the front door of Baker Street, they ran into Mrs. Hudson in the hall. She started to greet John, but when she saw Sherlock standing behind him, she smiled.

“Oh, hello, John. Who's your friend?”

“Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is Mrs. Hudson.”

Sherlock looked her over and said, “Housekeeper?”

“Landlady,” she corrected.

“Go ahead upstairs, Sherlock. I'll be there in a second.” Sherlock looked between John and Mrs. Hudson for a moment before going up to the flat.

When he was safely out of earshot, Mrs. Hudson looked at John conspiratorially. “I didn't know you were seeing anyone.”

“I'm not, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Well...” She looked up the stairs.

“Not my boyfriend. I met him yesterday.”

“Who is he, then?”

“It's complicated.”

“Sure,” she said knowingly. “Just a friend, then. Is that who you were talking to this morning? When the television was on?”

“You could hear that?”

“John, everyone could hear that. The volume was blaring. How long is your _friend_ going to be staying?”

“I don't know. I didn't exactly plan for any of this.”

“I don't guess you need me to open up the upstairs bedroom, though?”

“Look, I'd love to stay and chat, but I've got some things to take care of. I'll let you know.”

“Of course.” She grinned before she turned and walked away. She stopped at her own door and turned back to John. “For what it's worth, I rather like him.”

 

* * *

 

 

_Sunday_

 

By the middle of the day on Sunday, Sherlock had already succeeded in dismantling the doorbell, nearly breaking the microwave, and lighting a few thankfully small fires.

“You know, there was a pathologist who came into the labs while I was talking to that friend of yours. I wonder if she could get me some human remains. The refrigerator looks large enough to store them.”

“Absolutely not.”

Sherlock had sulked after that for a while, muttering about how he needed _something_ to do.

John caught him trying to leave the flat later that day and stopped him. “Where are you going?”

“I'm going to acquire a seven percent solution.”

“Cocaine?”

“Yes.”

John smirked. “I hate to break it to you, Sherlock, but that's illegal now.”

“Why?”

“It's bad for you.” The only thing that had made him look more horrified than the illegality of cocaine had been when he'd stumbled across a children's television show earlier that day.

“At least in my time I would have my violin to fall back on. But all you ever played was the clarinet.”

John had grown used to Sherlock picking out details of his life. On the one hand, it could be infuriating, but on the other, at least he never had to make small talk about himself. “If I find you a violin will you quit trying to take apart my laptop?”

“I have to see how it works.”

“I'll get you a book about how it works. Don't take it apart.”

“If you insist, although it takes a great deal of the fun out of scientific inquiry.”

“You'll survive somehow.”

Mrs. Hudson stopped John before he left, asking if he needed anything. Jokingly, he said, “Just a violin.”

“Why?”

“I need something to keep him occupied,” he said, pointing upstairs.

“I have one.”

“Seriously?”

She nodded. “I used to play when I was younger. I don't know if it will suit him, but he's welcome to it. Are you two getting along all right?”

“Yeah, everything's fine.”

“Do you need that second bedroom?”

“To tell you the truth, Mrs. Hudson, I'm not even sure if he sleeps at all.”

***                    *                    ***

Sherlock had looked over Mrs. Hudson's old violin critically. He spent the rest of the evening giving it a tune-up and coaxing sound from it. When he was mildly satisfied, he started playing in it earnest, and John breathed a sigh of relief.

It occupied him for hours. And he was actually quite good. He stood in front of the window in his robe, playing, his eyes occasionally falling shut during slower pieces. John knew almost nothing about classical music, but it sounded nice all the same.

John had thought about going out somewhere, or getting some things crossed off his to do list, but after standing in the kitchen doorway for a while, he decided to just sit and listen to Sherlock play. He could be ridiculous and baffling, but he was still intriguing.

When he stopped playing, it was as if he had emerged from a fog. He turned around, looking surprised to see John sitting across the room.

“You're quite good. I like that much more than you nearly ruining my computer.”

“It is an average instrument, but it suffices.”

“Well, I hope it will suffice tomorrow as well. I have to go into work, and I don't want you running all over London alone. So stay in, play your violin, and try not to set anything on fire.” John stood and said, “Oh, by the way, Mrs. Hudson wants to know if you want the upstairs bedroom? Have you slept at all since you got here?”

“Only if absolutely necessary. The sofa has been enough.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Besides, technically your bedroom is mine. Or was.”

John could feel Sherlock's eyes on him, staring him down, but not in a cruel or patronizing way. Finally he cleared his throat and said, “If you need anything, let me know. You remember what I told you about the phone?”

“Yes, and I remember where you said you put your mobile number should a catastrophe arise in your absence. Goodnight, Dr. Watson.”

“That's another thing. My name is John. No one calls people by their last names like that anymore.”

Sherlock smiled, twirling the bow of his violin around in his hands. “All right. Goodnight, John.”

 

* * *

 

_Monday_

 

Sherlock was already feeling cagey by noon.

He had played countless pieces on the violin, watched an awful amount of television, and even spoken to the housekeeper some when she was drawn upstairs by his playing. At one point, she even brought him food and a newspaper to read.

He flipped through the pages, glancing over the various crimes that had been reported. One such case, a murder, caught his interest. The paper said that the police had had enormous difficulty solving it. He spent the next few hours coercing the housekeeper into helping him figure out how to work John's laptop – it only took him ten minutes to crack the password – and looking up more information about the case. He didn't understand why the police had had so much trouble. The answer could not have been any more obvious.

John would tell him to stay out of it. But John wouldn't be home for a few more hours.

***                    *                    ***

When John came home that evening his living room was filled with police officers. One, a man with silver hair, was talking to Sherlock animatedly, jotting down notes on a pad of paper. Another, a dark-skinned woman with curly hair, was simply recording him.

“Sherlock, what's going on? Is everything okay?”

“Hello, John. Yes of course it is.”

“You going to explain why half of the Met is here?”

The silver-haired man turned to him and held out a hand, “I'm DI Lestrade.”

“Oh, God, what did he do?”

“Solved a murder, that's what.” The man grinned.

“Sherlock, what did I tell you about lying low?”

“I was bored.” He gave a dismissive little wave of his hand. “Besides, they never would have solved it on their own.”

Lestrade prickled a little at the comment, but seemed too grateful for the help to be truly upset. He turned back to John. “He yours?”

“Yeah. No! No, I mean, sort of. He's just living here for a while.”

“Out of town, huh?”

“In a way.”

***                    *                    ***

A few hours later, John had finally ushered all of the police officers out of his flat. Sherlock had effortlessly tied up so many lose ends for them, and likely would have continued to do so had John not made excuses.

Once they were gone, John went out to get takeaway for dinner, and when he came back, Sherlock was intently watching television, looking a bit more tired than he had been.

“You okay?”

Sherlock's eyes snapped away from the screen for a second. “Of course.”

“You know, you should try to actually get some sleep. You can't stay awake all week.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock had already let his attention slip back to the television. John just shook his head as he walked by.

When he brought the food into the living room, handing Sherlock a plate, he noticed what he was watching. “Why are you watching that?”

Sherlock took the plate. “I'm not hungry.”

“I don't care. Eat.”

Sherlock looked between John and the screen. “It's familiar. Rather, the time period is. I believe it is set only a few years past my time.” John followed Sherlock's gaze to the television. Rex Harrison was walking out of the Ascot Racecourse talking about a woman named Eliza. John smiled. “Do you know this production, John?”

“Yeah, Sherlock, most everyone does.”

“What is it?”

“It's called _My Fair Lady_. It's a movie.”

“Fiction, yes?”

“Yes. It's based on an old play.”

“The violin in the score is pleasant.”

John laughed. “Yes, it is.”

“Why are you looking at it so fondly?”

“Oh, well, it was one of my parents' favorite movies. Harry and I saw a lot of it when we were growing up.”

“The brother? On the phone inscription?”

“Sister. Short for Harriet. Anyway, I guess it makes me a bit nostalgic.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow, not quite understanding perhaps what John meant. He looked back at the movie as the violins continued into a song sung by an elegantly dressed man. He was just about to ask about the piece when John said, “ 'On the Street Where You Live,' before you ask.”

“Sentimental.”

“Of course it is. It's supposed to be.”

“Parents' favorite song, I'm assuming.”

“Yeah. They loved it.” John took a few bites of his food.

“John?”

“Yeah?”

“Who's Clara?”

“Why?”

“You said Harry was your sister. The inscription led me to believe Clara was a brother's past romantic attachment.”

“Sister's past romantic attachment.”

“Two women?”

“Yeah, they were together a long time. They broke up a while back, and, well, Harry hasn't ever been the most stable of people, and she took it pretty hard.”

“Yes, alcoholic, correct?” John nodded. “Fascinating, though. Two women. Like the love that dares not speak its name.”

“What?”

“Do people in your time know Oscar Wilde?”

“Oh,” John said, realizing.

“It must have been quite the risk for your sister and Clara.”

“No, Sherlock. It's not like that anymore.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, you don't get sent to prison. No one acts like there's something wrong with you. I mean, Harry and Clara were married.”

“You don't say. Interesting.”

“Things have changed since your time, Sherlock.”

“Thank goodness they have.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The world is filled with more important things to worry about.” He turned back to the television, grudgingly taking a few bites of his food as Audrey Hepburn descended a staircase in an evening gown. “Thank God balls went out of style too. So much tedious social chatter. I can't imagine what people ever saw in them. Ghastly affairs.”

John laughed under his breath. “Yes, I'm sure you would have been an absolute _delight_ at one of those.”

Sherlock shot him a look, but it softened when he saw John smiling at him. “As you might imagine, I avoided them at all costs.”

“I bet you did.”

***                    *                    ***

Later that night, when John was on his way to bed, he asked again, “Are you sure you don't need Mrs. Hudson to open up the other bedroom?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but the words wouldn't come immediately. And when he spoke, he didn't sound quite so sure of himself.

“The sofa will be more than enough.”

 

* * *

 

_Tuesday_

 

John came home from work Tuesday night to find his flat blessedly free of police and all appliances in their original conditions. Sherlock didn't even seem to notice he had come in. He was standing at his place in front of the window, playing the violin again. John didn't recognize the piece, but then, he never did. He almost said something, just to let Sherlock know he was there, but he finally decided to not interrupt.

He went to the kitchen and started setting out food for dinner since Sherlock was apparently incapable of feeding himself. Behind him, he heard Sherlock finish the piece with a flourish, and once again, John almost spoke in the ensuing silence. But the first piece was almost immediately followed by a second, so he stayed quiet.

This piece John did recognize.

Sherlock knew damn well that John was there.

John turned around and looked at him, playing as he always did, with his back to John. “On the Street Where You Live” filled up every corner of the room. John walked into the living room, standing behind his chair with his hands resting on its back as Sherlock played the song.

When the song ended, Sherlock set the bow and violin down and turned around trying to act as if John wasn't watching him.

“That was beautiful.”

“It was a simple enough song that it was easy to make a decent arrangement.” Sherlock wouldn't look at him. “I ran out of things to play, so I had to fill the void with something. God knows one can only watch so much television,” he said as he walked across the room.

When he tried to walk by, John stopped him with a hand on his arm. Sherlock easily could have shrugged away, but he didn't. “I mean it.”

Sherlock glanced down at John's hand, finally smiling a little. “Thank you.”

John let his hand drop, expecting Sherlock to walk on into the kitchen, but he remained rooted in his place, watching John with the same curiosity with which he had examined every facet of this new world. John was about to speak, to bring him back from wherever his mind had wandered off to, but Sherlock brought his lips to John's and stole the words from them. And John might have pulled away had his first instinct not been to kiss him back.

When Sherlock pulled back, he searched John's face for his reaction, and whatever he saw must have been what he was looking for, because as he ran his fingers along John's jaw he said in a quiet voice:

“ _Beautiful_.”

 

* * *

 

_Wednesday_

 

The following evening, when John returned home, he ran into Mrs. Hudson in the downstairs hall, and once again she inquired after Sherlock. When she asked again if she should open up the upstairs bedroom, John just said, “No. No reason to.”

 

* * *

 

_Thursday_

 

“Tomorrow's Friday,” John said from his end of the sofa.

“Yes.”

“That means you're going back.”

Sherlock couldn't look at him. He fiddled aimlessly with a Rubik's cube (which he had earlier referred to only as “that infuriating puzzle”). “I suppose so.”

“Wish you were staying longer.” The admission felt too great, so he added with a smile, “Mrs. Hudson will be bored without you to speculate about.”

“Admittedly, I will likely be bored as well. I've grown rather fond of your technology,” he said, finally looking up from his puzzle. But if his face was any indication, John was just as much of a puzzle as the Rubik's cub had been.

“What should we do?”

“For once, I'm afraid I don't know.”

***                    *                    ***

When John woke up in the middle of the night, the other side of the bed was cold beside him. But through the closed door, he could hear the faint notes of “On the Street Where You Live.”

 

* * *

 

_Friday_

 

When John went downstairs to go to work, Sherlock followed, wearing his outdated clothing once more.

They stopped at the door, leaving it shut to the world outside. John looked him up and down, chuckling at the clothes, and then his eyes stopped at Sherlock's neck.

“Couldn't bear to give up the scarf, could you?”

“I thought surely it wouldn't be too much of a distraction, even in the 1800s. It's unobtrusive enough.”

“I guess this is it.” Sherlock nodded, his eyes cutting away from John's. “I never thought I'd say this, but I'm glad you were bored enough to jump off a hospital, although I really wouldn't recommend making a habit of it.” That coaxed Sherlock back, drawing a sad smile from him.

“I will certainly keep that in mind.”

“Take care of yourself, okay? Don't talk too much about movies and computers. You don't want people to really think you've gone mad.”

“How should I explain my week's absence?”

“Visiting a friend?”

“I don't think that's quite how Mrs. Hudson would put it.”

John laughed. “No, I don't think so either.” He resisted the urge to drag him down by that stupid scarf and kiss him, but decided that would only make it harder. He opened the door, the two of them walking out onto the pavement, pausing before heading their separate ways. “Goodbye, Sherlock.” The words barely came out.

“Goodbye, John.”

John turned away before he did something stupid, and forced himself to not look back.

***                    *                    ***

He spent the day at work sad and tired, wondering if Sherlock was lost to time yet or not.

***                    *                    ***

When he came home that night, he narrowly avoided Mrs. Hudson, who was on her way out to run errands. He couldn't answer any of the questions she was sure to ask.

He sat in his chair in the living room, surrounded by the silence. Sherlock had said he lived here, all those years ago. It was hard to believe that the man who had occupied this flat so easily was occupying it in a different time, one that John couldn't reach. It felt like Sherlock had always been here, like Baker Street, no matter what year, should have him and all his madness in it.

Did Sherlock's Baker Street feel half as empty as John's did?

He tried to take some comfort in knowing that he walked the same floorboards, stood at the same windows, but somehow it all felt hollow.

And when he caught sight of the violin, it killed him to know that no one would play it again.

***                    *                    ***

Later that night there was a knock at the door. John thought about ignoring it, even though Mrs. Hudson wasn't back yet to answer it for him. He even considered opening the door to whomever it was and telling them to kindly go the hell away. He was beyond not in the mood to interact with other people. But thankfully, the person didn't knock again. John sank deeper into his chair, relieved.

And then he heard footsteps on the stairs.

He stood up, turning around, and saw a figure in the doorway.

“You really should invest in a lock that is more difficult to pick.”

John stood in silent shock for what felt like forever before slowly walking up to Sherlock, not quite believing he was real until he could lay a hand on him. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here.”

“I thought you went back.”

He smirked and gave a tilt of his head. “After careful consideration, I decided I didn't entirely trust my colleague's calculations, at least, not nearly as much as I trust your advice. You _did_ say that jumping off buildings was a terribly unsafe practice, and the more I thought it over –”

John cut him off, doing what he wished he'd done that morning, kissing him and forgetting everything else.

When they broke apart, Sherlock spoke again, despite having to catch his breath first. “And while I'm perfectly willing to negotiate the matter of dismantling your computer, I really must find my way to a better violin, or at the very least have that one refurbished.”

“I think we can manage that. You realize I'll have to tell Mrs. Hudson she has a new tenant, right?”

“I'm sure she'll be ecstatic. And would you kindly tell her to quit asking about the entirely unnecessary upstairs bedroom?”

“Absolutely.”

**Author's Note:**

> [On the Street Where You Live](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DYGcjGRc-yA) (1:00 minute mark)
> 
> [The poem the title comes from](http://always1895.net/post/11857862603/starrett1-birthday-week-2011)


End file.
